


Humanized

by quelling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quelling/pseuds/quelling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wakes up to an unpleasant surprise.</p><p>"Oh, but that's the thing.  I was just about to explain," Deaton interrupted the two stubborn males.  "You <em>do</em> need the protection because as of right now, until we can find a way to reverse it - you're fully human.  You're no more werewolf than Stiles here."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Humanized

**Author's Note:**

> For larasmash’s prompt on tumblr: Under whatever circumstances Derek "loses" his wolf (if temporary or not is up to you). Stiles at first doesn't understand why it is painful for Derek and then listens and helps. Or something like this.
> 
> I originally posted the first two parts of this fanfic on tumblr, but the third part became a monster, and since the whole thing flowed together (as intended), I decided to post it in full here. If you began reading it on tumblr, you'll find this is the complete work.
> 
> Also, the teen rating is for language. Just a heads up so you're not disappointed at the lack of sexy times. ;)

Derek slowly returned to consciousness, but it required a lot of work, effort and energy. Energy from stores that he didn't seem to have at the moment. He couldn't quite open his eyes yet, but his ears seemed to be working - sort of. Well enough that he could hear mumbled voices at least, but he judged they must be some distance away since he could neither understand what they were saying nor recognize to whom they belonged. He strained to make out something, anything that would give him a clue to his location or what was going on, but nothing. Instead, he could only hear the steady tick-tock of a clock and a tap dripping water slowly. His own breath, as well, was loud in his ears, and he vaguely realized he felt dizzy. Vertigo was such a fleeting sensation, usually disappearing as soon as his healing kicked in, but this time it seemed to linger. Perhaps he was hanging upside down?

He took better stock of his body as a whole then. He was definitely recumbent on a cold, metal surface. There was a pillow under his head, which bode well for his location. If he were being held by something unfriendly, it was doubtful they would have bothered with a cushion. The softness was doubly appreciated because he fucking hurt -- all over. Again, not unusual, but if he had been out for any length of time, some of these minor aches and pains should have been long gone.

It would help if he could recall what happened before awaking wherever he was now. He concentrated on remembering, but it was all blank, so he went back to using the senses at his disposal.

He inhaled deeply, but those murmuring, muffled voices in the distance were too far away to smell as well. He could smell antiseptic types of odors, and those tended to overpower everything else. For Derek in this particular case, their strong pungency was especially frustrating. He was well-practiced in separating scents, even the strong ones, but it just wasn't working for him.

He had almost nothing to work with and he was tired from the little he'd accomplished, which was next to nothing. It was really starting to piss him off, but he refused to give up. If nothing else, he was not going to succumb to weakness and pass out again, and he was going to open his damn eyes.

It took a good two minutes before he did it, and the room was a little blurry even so, but that seemed to go along with his headache and dizziness. At least he could tell he was in a medical type of office, and realized it was almost certainly Deaton's clinic. He'd been here before and he was likely safe, but he was no less on edge. Probably because it felt like a heavy stone had settled in his stomach; a portent that was screaming at him that something was very, _very_ wrong.

He was just starting to consider why they might have left him alone here when the murmuring voices grew closer, and then swiftly the door was opening and two figures entered. He squinted at the pair.

"Hey, you're awake!" It was Stiles, and Derek tried to ignore how that automatically soothed him. He shouldn't automatically feel safer at the teen's voice.

"Now that you're back with us, I'd like to do a quick exam, if you don't mind." Dr. Deaton didn't really ask, though he phrased it as such to be polite.

Derek was already confused. If these two were in the building, he should have been able to hear them clearly. His eyes were narrowed at them both. "Wha-" he started to ask all the questions that were floating around in his head, but it came out like a croak. His throat was dry, and now that he'd tried to speak, it was incredibly uncomfortable.

"Ack, let me get you some water!" Stiles murmured, exiting the room.

Derek looked at Deaton. "I'm sure you have plenty of questions, but I don't think you're going to like my answers," the vet supplied unhelpfully.

Derek tried to growl at him, but it just came off as a sad, weak attempt. A werewolf infant could produce better. He scowled instead; he could manage that just fine - years of practice.

"You've probably already recognized your abilities are compromised," the doctor sighed, just as Stiles re-entered the room with a bottle of water, already unscrewing the cap.

Derek tried to sit up to take it, but couldn't manage it. Stiles immediately moved to offer him support, and the Alpha really had no choice but accept the aid. He didn't like it, but he gulped at the liquid thirstily. Stiles hummed in encouragement, and then helped him lay back down when finished.

"Have you told him yet?" the teen asked.

"I was just about to. Derek, you and Isaac were attacked by hunters. Chris Argent has already -- neutralized them, but not before you were both shot with arrows laced with -," Alan Deaton paused, dreading Derek's reaction. "Laced with an unknown substance," the vet started again. "We haven't been able to determine the ingredients yet, but I am working on it."

"Is Isaac okay?" Derek asked after his beta immediately.

"Fine, fine. He wasn't hurt nearly as badly as you, and he's staying with Scott right now."

"You'll be coming home with me," Stiles threw in, and Derek glowered at him, already shaking his head, negating that idea.

"It's the safest place for you!" Stiles added quickly. "Hunters won't approach the Sheriff's house, and --"

Derek cut him off, tone hard and angry. "I don't need your protection," he declared, even without all the facts. He wouldn't hide behind Stiles, not if he could help it.

"Oh, but that's the thing. I was just about to explain," Deaton interrupted the two stubborn males. "You _do_ need the protection because as of right now, until we can find a way to reverse it - you're fully human. You're no more werewolf than Stiles here."

Derek's first instinct was to laugh and then to deny it. Or throw one or both of them into the nearest wall to prove just how little protection he really needed, but everything he'd been feeling was making more sense. Horrible, painful, scary sense. Because what Derek had thought was perhaps senses numbed by pain or stress, wasn't that at all. No, his senses were just completely fucked. He closed his eyes, listening hard, and even with the other two in the same room, he couldn't hear their heartbeats. He could barely smell them. When he tried to turn his instincts over to his wolf, it was like a chunk of him was missing. There was no lycan instinct to kick in.

He looked at Deaton and Stiles with wide eyes, clearly panicking, and that in and of itself was new. Derek Hale didn't panic. He could get angry, he could seek revenge, he happily got busy getting even and attacking those that needed it, he could even feel fear, but he did _not_ panic.

He reached up to clutch his heart because it felt like it was beating out of his chest, and his breathing became rushed and difficult, like he couldn't suck in enough air.

"Oh! Shit! Paper bag?!" Stiles demanded of the vet because this was something he knew intimately. "Panic attack. Have you had one before?" he asked, putting a hand over Derek's heart and leaning over him. "Look in my face, right in my eyes. Concentrate on my eyes and breathe. My hand's going to move up and down with your chest, okay?"

Derek hated being weak as much as he hated appearing weak, but he felt so far out of his element that he followed Stiles' instructions instinctively. Perhaps there was a trace of wolf left in him after all since that was the part of him that relied on instinct -- except there wasn't a wolf to rely on, and that was the entire problem. Apparently his purely human side trusted Stiles in much the same way his wolf did. This faith in the teenager was something Derek usually worked very hard to ignore, but he couldn't right now. He needed him, and it was both as simple and as complicated as that.

Deaton soon produced a small paper bag, but what Stiles was doing seemed to be working. They were locked eye to eye, and Derek's chest was rising and falling, as if Stiles' palm was keeping his lungs functioning. Deaton just stood there, holding the sack and watching -- with more than a little amazement.

Some time later, Derek came out of it, and only then did Stiles step back and let Deaton step forward again. If his hand remained on the table near Derek's shoulder, well, no one commenetd on it.

"You're going to experience many things that a werewolf simply doesn't normally encounter," Deaton stated, finding it a perfect time to say so. "You need to stay with Stiles while we come up with a way to reverse this. You've never been a human, not like this."

Derek began scowling again because it was apparently his default expression. "What's the Sheriff going to say?"

"He's out of town. At a National Sheriff Convention. No, really. It's a real thing, and he's there, so we've got a week to fix this," Stiles answered.

The Alpha squinted at Deaton. "Everything is blurry."

"Hmm. I'll be back in just a moment," Deaton disappeared from the room.

Derek tried to sit up, but he couldn't manage it. He _couldn't_ fucking manage it, and it made him want to punch something. He glanced down at himself, bringing his hands up to his face; they were covered in bruises. Bruises never remained this long, and it was almost fascinating to see. Or would be if they didn't stand for everything wrong. He cleared his throat. "What are my injuries?" he asked of Stiles as calmly as he could manage. 

Stiles was holding up the bottle of water. "Take another drink and I'll tell you," he bartered, offering his arm around Derek's shoulder to help the patient sit up again so that he could swallow with ease.

Derek complied because his throat was just that dry. Dehydration apparently set in much more quickly in humans. He frowned before drinking several gulps.

"You took an arrow in your side, mainly a flesh wound. It missed all the important organs at least, and one through the arm. Deaton has them both stitched up. You took a few kicks to the ribs, one is definitely cracked. And of course you fought back, even once you lost your claws and teeth. Or probably especially after, so you took several punches. Your hands are a mess from the ones you landed," Stiles recounted. "You fought them off so Isaac could get away. They were pulling out a sword, but Scott and me, we got there in time." He wasn't pulling any punches. He himself would want to know the full story and he expected Derek would appreciate the same.

Derek was saved from a reply by Deaton's return. "Lay flat," he instructed. "I want to examine those eyes."

"Injured?" Derek asked automatically.

"Not obviously," Deaton shook his head. "I'm no ophthalmologist, but...," he trailed off, shining a light into Derek's pupils and peering inside with an instrument Derek had never seen in person. He'd never had any reason to visit an eye doctor. 

"Huh." Deaton didn't look at Stiles when he spoke to him. "Look in my desk. Third drawer on right. Bring me the blue eye glass case."

Derek looked as if he had smelled something foul, which would be funny if he could actually smell anything. A human's ability to smell was so beneath his usual capabilities, it was almost as if he couldn't smell at all. And apparently he couldn't see either? Fuck his life.

Deaton held a prescription pad up in front of Derek's face. "Can you read it?"

Derek read off the clinic name and address.

Deaton moved the pad further away. "And now?"

"Blurry."

"It would appear you're near-sighted," Deaton nodded. "Something you would have been if not for the werewolf gene."

"What does that even mean? They ripped out my DNA? I am _not_ human. Never have been," Derek gritted out.

"More like they suppressed it, but do not stress, Derek. We will fix it. Stiles --"

Stiles was back, glasses in hand. He looked torn between amusement and concern. Deaton slid them on Derek's face. "Any improvement?"

Derek frowned, shaking his head. "Worse."

"Well, it was worth a try," Deaton sighed.

"Dad has several pair at home, all different prescriptions through the years. Maybe we can find a pair that works," Stiles offered, but he was staring at Derek. In glasses. Derek was in glasses. And honestly, he should not look so hot in them, but he did. He so did.

And he looked so _normal_. It was a stark visual embodiment that Derek wasn't a werewolf right now. Well, he was, but in name only. He was only as strong as his muscles allowed, and granted, that was a lot stronger than Stiles, but it was still a big difference. And Derek couldn't hear, see or smell any better than Stiles. He was -- humanized.

***

The ride from Deaton's vet clinic to Stiles' house was an exercise in tension. Stiles kept glancing over at Derek who sat huddled in the passenger seat. The other man looked so stressed, he wouldn't have been surprised to see the werewolf curl into a fetal position. It was bad enough having to see him flinch every time a pair of headlights filled the Jeep, and Stiles finally turned on some music for a distraction, for the both of them. Derek just stared at the stereo a long moment and reached over to cut it off.

"I thought it might help," Stiles offered with a small sigh. "You're jumpy." He saw Derek swallow nervously.

"How can you stand it?" Derek finally asked in a wary, ragged tone.

"Stand what? Exactly?"

"I don't even know a car is approaching until I can see it. And the only thing I can hear is you breathing and the tires on the asphalt and my own damn heartbeat in my ears," Derek complained.

"Welcome to humanity, Derek. We don't have supernatural senses to give us a leg up on things," Stiles answered and then winced. That probably sounded rude and well, rude. "I'm -- look, I'm sorry. I know this is all new to you. It's just this is normal, for me. No superpowers here. I rely on my brain a lot. And sarcasm. Don't forget the power of sarcasm."

Derek just looked at Stiles like it was the first time he'd seen him, really seen him. It was enough to make Stiles fidget uncomfortably in his seat. 

"We're almost to my house. You'll feel better when we're not traveling in a big hunk of metal at fifty miles per hour," Stiles said and then shook his head. "Wrong thing to say, huh?" He wanted to reach out and pat Derek's shoulder or squeeze his hand, but knew that wouldn't be welcome so he settled for a small smile. "I'm a good driver, and it's going to be fine."

"It is not going to be fine," Derek bit out, turning away to glare out the window. He was met with a porch light being turned on at passing house and closed his eyes. He couldn't help but think how _well_ Stiles functioned with such pitiful senses. He couldn't help but form a new, grudging respect for the human teenager.

He'd just opened his eyes and was about to say more when Stiles turned the Jeep into his drive-way, rolling to a stop in front of the garage and killing the engine.

"I know you don't trust me, but I do trust you," Stiles finally murmured in the silent cab of his vehicle. "So I guess that's gonna have to be enough trust for the both of us. We should get inside and you should take a warm shower. We'll tape up your injuries in plastic so the bandages don't get wet. You'll feel a lot better after that, I promise."

Derek regarded his current protector. This was not the first time he'd had to rely on Stiles. It was almost becoming habit. "You say all that like you've got personal experience."

"I run with wolves, Derek. Of course I've got experience with bandaging up injuries," Stiles huffed at him, and then climbed out of the car. Before Derek could get even his door open, Stiles was there, offering his shoulder to Derek's good side.

It took them a while, but they managed to get inside the house and Stiles locked the front door as Derek leaned on the wall. Then they made their way upstairs with slow, but steady progress. Once Derek was propped against the bathroom sink, Stiles left to gather supplies. He returned with plastic grocery bags and scissors and then retrieved a first aid kit from the closet.

"It would probably be easier if you just let me cut your remaining clothes off. I promise I'll send someone to get more of yours, and I've got something you can wear until then, but what's left of yours isn't salvageable," Stiles explained, almost carefully, as if scared of spooking Derek.

The werewolf merely nodded his acceptance and Stiles began cutting. Why wasn't he surprised that the Alpha was commando under the jeans? He inwardly shook his head at the unfairness of Derek's near-perfect physique and tossed the clothing scraps into a pile near the door. "It really is weird to see wounds on you," he remarked softly, mostly to himself. "Even that wolfsbane bullet healed up fast once you treated it," he recalled. Derek had expected him to cut off his arm to save him, and damn, that felt like ages ago. Stiles didn't even wait on a reply, not really expecting one. Instead, he pulled medical tape out of his kit, and then began attaching plastic bags over Deaton's well-placed bandages. The vet did good work.

Derek watched his every move, not because he didn't trust him, but because he was impressed. Stiles might only be seventeen, but he acted closer to thirty, and his movements at the moment weren't at all flailing and graceless. Instead, he was efficient and proficient, taking care of matters in such a well-practiced manner that Derek felt a welling of concern. How many times had Stiles gone home to bandage himself up and care for himself like this?

"Scott helps you, yes?" he abruptly asked the younger man. "He does this for you after we get into scrapes?"

Stiles' eyes flashed to Derek's own and there was a fleeting hurt before the feeling was banked and hidden. He offered a casual shrug then. "Scott's got other things to deal with. Usually Allison."

Derek could fill in the blanks, and a certain amount of guilt clutched at his stomach. "You're Dad has no idea, does he?"

"Of course not, Derek. I wouldn't expose the pack that way, and it's for his own protection too," Stiles answered, almost offended.

Derek swallowed hard, and it had nothing to do with his own issues. How many times had the pack let Stiles to go home and nurse himself alone? Without even the ability to go to his father for aid? He clenched his jaw because that would change. Hell yes, that was going to change from now on.

Stiles noted the tension, and sighed, misunderstanding its cause. "Look, I'll admit I've been tempted to tell him a few times. As it is, he thinks I've become some juvenile delinquent. I lie to him constantly and he knows me well enough to know it. But it's cool. He knows nothing about the pack."

"I believe you," Derek assured him and then looked away. 

With another sigh, Stiles finished the task at hand and moved to pick up the first aid kit and leftover plastic bags. He was quite proud of himself, he'd kept his eyes off the parts of Derek's anatomy that he had no business viewing, though the current discussion had certainly helped distract him. He'd often wanted to tell his Dad the truth, had even thought of asking Derek for permission, but now he knew what the answer would certainly be. And it sucked.

He blushed at his own thoughts because now was _not_ the time to think of sucking. He jerked back from Derek and flailed, nearly dropping the first aid kit and scissors before tossing them into the sink and moving toward the bathtub stall. He leaned a hand on the wall to steady himself and checked the temperature of water, adjusting it slightly and then pulling up the shower nozzle. "I'll help you in and then get out of here and give you privacy."

Derek hummed in answer and Stiles looked over his shoulder at him. That was a new sound, one he'd never heard out of the Alpha before. Derek merely peered back at him. Stiles decided to look at Derek's ear, a perfectly safe part of the werewolf's anatomy, and offer him a shoulder again. "If you get weak or tired before I get back in here, just sit on the edge of the tub. It won't matter if water gets on the tile or rug, they'll dry," he suggested.

He didn't look down as Derek gingerly stepped into the bathtub. It was odd though, hearing him make a pained sound. Derek was the most robust person he knew, and it almost didn't compute, him being so debilitated. He was biting his bottom lip when he closed the shower curtain, just missing Derek's wide-eyed expression.

Derek really didn't need to see Stiles' mouth just then because no matter how much he was hurting, he wasn't dead. Watching Stiles worry his bottom lip made him think of things; things he shouldn't be thinking about a teenager. When Derek made another pained moan as Stiles opened the bathroom door to leave, the teen just thought Derek was hurting. "Don't worry. The hot water will soothe some of those aches!" he called out behind him, closing the door.

He went into his bedroom and pulled out the largest tee he owned. Nope. Too small. He went to his father's bedroom and got out a pair of the Sheriff's sweat pants and a white tee, dropping them off in the bathroom.

"You doing okay in there?" he asked through the curtain.

"The hot water is good," Derek answered.

"Understatement," Stiles laughed shortly because Derek was the personification of understatement. "Going to search for some of Dad's glasses and then heading to my room for real now. I'll be back in ten to help you out of there. And then to bed."

Derek grunted, and Stiles took that as answer enough, chuckling about it on the way back to his Dad's bedroom. He found two pair of eyeglasses stashed in the bottom of his nightstand, another pair in the dresser and yet another in the closet before going back to his own room. He then settled down with his laptop, opened the google search engine and typed: sensory deprivation.

***

Derek was out of the shower and now settled on Stiles' bed while Stiles sat at his desk, pointing out a page on his laptop. " _'Short-term sessions of sensory deprivation are described as relaxing and conducive to meditation; however, extended or forced sensory deprivation can result in extreme anxiety, hallucinations, bizarre thoughts, and depression,_ '" he read to Derek. "Since we won't know how long until Deaton finds a cure, we need to make sure none of that happens. And I suspect it's all going to happen faster for you because one, you've already had a panic attack and two, you're a werewolf. Everything is more intense with you." Stiles looked at Derek.

Derek was frowning at him. "I'm not a werewolf right now. And I can't see that screen either," he growled, or tried too. It was a very human sound.

"Oh yeah. Here you go," Stiles smirked, dropping the assortment of eyeglasses on the bed next to Derek. "If none of those work, you'll just have to listen to me talk. It might be nice for a change, you not being able to read over my shoulder." Stiles looked over at Derek, but he was too busy trying out the different prescriptions to take the bait.

Stiles continued his train of thought. "You're accustomed to a greater sensory perception than anyone in those experiments, and that's drastically reduced right now. I'm really worried; I don't want you to start experiencing hallucinations. Panic attacks are bad enough," he remarked from very personal experience.

Derek swallowed thickly and nodded. "You obviously have a plan." He seemed to have narrowed down the choices to two pair, and was alternating them back and forth, trying to find his best vision.

"I do. Don't I always have a plan? I thought you could wear headphones and listen to my music. Sounds stupidly simple, but it will give you something to focus on, instead of what you can't sense," Stiles nodded to himself, reaching for music player off the desk and walking it over to the bed and handing it to Derek.

Derek took it with surprisingly little resistance, instead giving him a nod in return. "This pair actually improve things. Less blurry," he shared.

Stiles grinned, pleased that one of them had actually worked. "That's one less worry. Awesome! If you want, you can close your eyes anyway. Are you still dizzy?"

"Not as dizzy. Now that I've got these, it's not my vision that's driving me up the fucking wall either. I'm used to hearing -- so much more," Derek confessed. Truthfully, he was already going a little mad with the auditory loss. He wasn't deaf by any means, but comparatively, it was an acute deficit. For once, he actually wished Stiles were filling up the room with more chatter. 

Headphones now in place, Derek was about to turn on the music when Stiles held up a hand. "Hey?" he pointed at him. "Don't bitch about my music library. It's eclectic." He turned back to his laptop before Derek could offer a rejoinder. 

Instead of a comeback, Derek smiled behind Stiles' back. He'd been in Stiles' Jeep enough to know his music tastes. He wouldn't tell him, ever, but he already liked most of the music Stiles preferred. 

About an hour later, Derek painfully shifted his weight on the bed, but he suppressed the groan. Granted, he was accustomed to pain, but he wasn't accustomed to these lasting, lingering aches and twinges that didn't go away. He could say without reserve that he preferred getting it over with quickly, and he couldn't help but recall all the times he'd watched bruises and cuts fade from Stiles over a week or more. He winced, and it had nothing to do with his own misery.

"It's a _lap_ top. Bring it over here and sit with me," Derek said into the space between them. He really didn't mean it to come out like an order; he treated Stiles differently than the betas these days and he wasn't quite so gruff and blunt with the teen most of the time.

Stiles turned and looked at him, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. Apparently he put enough pieces together to do as Derek asked because he unplugged the laptop and climbed gingerly onto the bed beside the werewolf. 

Derek pressed against his side and soon as he got still, and Stiles found it all very curious. It wasn't werewolf proclivity driving Derek's need for some tactility. Maybe it was pure habit for him, or maybe both parts of Derek found comfort in cuddling. Not that they were cuddling, Stiles reminded himself. And honestly, when he thought of Derek, he didn't think of him as having two parts or two sides like he did the betas because Derek was born a wolf. Usually Derek was both wolf and human integrated at the same time, no matter in which form he was currently shifted.

Stiles angled himself against him more fully, still gentle enough not to cause him added pain from his injuries, and he was almost positive he saw tension bleed out of Derek's face. That was a good sign. He continued researching, and eventually Derek leaned his head against Stiles, breathing softly as he watched Stiles fingers move across the keyboard, the screen going from one link to another and another.

They'd lost track of time, but night had definitely fallen. Derek still had the earbuds in, but he'd spent the time watching Stiles on his laptop, pressing against his side seamlessly. He'd always known that the teen was good at research, but Stiles should really consider it his own superpower. Actually, thinking of it, Stiles had said as much, many times, but no one really gave him enough credit for it. Derek would have to change that too.

Stiles had managed to track down a myth about a witch's potion that could supposedly steal a werewolf's powers. He'd also found the title of a spell book that contained said potion, but it was one of a kind and in a museum in Salem. They both sighed in unison at the discovery, both frustrated.

Stiles shifted and Derek groaned before he could bite it back. Stiles' gaze jerked toward him with wide eyes. "Oh fuck, Derek, your prescription from Deaton!" He slid off the bed, even more careful than before, shaking his head at himself in self-condemnation. "I'm lousy at taking care of you! I'll be right back!" Derek noted his eyes were blood shot from staring at the computer screen for so long just before Stiles raced out of the room.

Derek wasn't accustomed to medication. He rarely drank because it just didn't have an effect on his werewolf metabolism so he had his doubts about the efficacy of the pill bottle of narcotics that Deaton had sent home with them. Stiles was back in a flash, a couple of pills in his palm and a glass of water.

"Dude, you should have said something. These will totally help your pain," Stiles bobbed his head. Actually, Stiles had almost only given him one. Considering Derek was unused to strong pain relievers, the codeine might very well give him quite the high, but since they were late with this dose, he'd opted for following Deaton's instructions with two. "Not that I'm blaming you because I should have remembered. I just got caught up in that search." He rocked back on his heels, frowning. "Sorry, man."

Derek gave him a stern look. "Stop that. It's not your fault." He swallowed the medicine and moved to set the glass on Stiles' nightstand, but Stiles snatched it from him before he could manage the stretch. 

" _You_ stop that! You're going to pull your stitches," Stiles admonished him. "I'm going to warm us up something for dinner," he added and then disappeared again.

Derek closed his eyes, listened to the lyrics from the music on play, and tried not to think about the pain.

Stiles called Deaton while warming up leftover chili. (It was usually better the second day anyway, but he added fresh cheese to the top.) Deaton had been in recent contact with Chris Argent, and while Stiles hated the hunter on principle, he was hoping he would come through for them - for Derek. So far, Chris was still tracking down other hunters with this potion, substance, whatever, but hadn't got his hands on any yet.

Stiles sighed when he hung up. He just wanted this fixed, for Derek's sake. While it was really cool to see Derek in glasses, and having a level playing field, so to speak, it sucked seeing Derek in so much pain. And worse, seeing him try to hide and suppress it.

Putting everything on a tray, he trudged back upstairs, wishing he had good news to go along with the meal. He was surprised when Derek pulled off the headphones. "You don't want to keep those in?"

"I was hoping you'd talk to me while we eat," Derek admitted quietly.

Stiles couldn't hide his surprise, or his smile. "Do you know how many times you've said ' _shut up, Stiles_ ' in the course of our relationship?" he asked with a laugh. "Now the truth is out -- you like hearing me talk!" he chortled happily.

Derek shrugged, in no mood to explain himself. He took a bite of the chili, and looked at Stiles intently as he chewed and swallowed. "This is good. You made it?" Derek nodded to his bowl.

"Yeah, yesterday," Stiles answered. "I can't cook much, not well that is, but this is on my short list of successes so we eat it a lot. It was my Mom's recipe."

Derek looked almost fond at that and it was almost too much for Stiles to take. Derek was acting less broody and more open. More -- human. He almost had to roll his eyes at his own obvious choice of description, and also at his own obliviousness. Derek was acting like this because of the drugs and because of the pain. Probably and mostly the _good_ drugs that his body wasn't used to, especially with this slower metabolism.

"You should eat so those pills don't upset your stomach. Trust me, it can happen. And it's late, so we should probably sleep after we're done. Tomorrow, we'll figure something out to reverse this," he nodded resolutely.

Derek shook his head at him. "I'll eat this, but I'm not sleepy. Are you seriously telling me that you're not willing to talk to me tonight? You? Unwilling to talk?"

Stiles had to laugh at that. "Fine. Fine. Want me to wax poetic about the way Scott waxes poetic about Allison?"

Derek made a noise that might very well have been a chuckle. "Not only no, but hell no."

"So have you ever seen _Men In Black_?" he inquired next, seemingly randomly.

"You're asking me about movies? Honestly?"

"I take it you have if you're aware it's a movie," Stiles grinned.

"How many times do I have to tell you that I wasn't raised in a cave?" Derek snorted at him.

Stiles decided not to comment on that directly because that might lead to thoughts of where Derek was actually raised, and the state of that structure now and and -- and that really was a bad path to meander down. "So you know how Agent K revealed all these famous people that were actually aliens? Are there werewolves like that? Like, any professional athletes using their superpowers for fame and fortune in plain sight?"

"How long have you been hanging on to that question?" Derek's tone was completely dry, but it looked as if he were holding back a smile.

"Whoa, Derek, are the corner of your lips moving? As in an upward type of direction? That would be, in the interest of full disclosure, the opposite of a frown, almost known as a smile," Stiles teased him.

That drew out the smile completely. "There might be a few, but you know, most of us try to avoid the spotlight," Derek shared before looking conspiratorial as he leaned in closer. "You know the Gilbert brothers?"

"Those WWF guys?!" Stiles gaped.

Derek winked; he actually winked. Stiles wasn't sure which was more delicious - the tidbit about the werewolf wrestlers or the wink. No, actually, he knew. It was the wink, most definitely the wink. His stomach did that funny topsy-turey spin that Derek caused far too often.

"They're from a pack in New Jersey, one of the oldest packs in the US," Derek continued between bites.

"New Jersey, huh? Why do I find the idea of werewolves with Jersey accents completely hilarious?" Stiles snorted and laughed. "So is that why you moved to New York, because of that particular pack?"

As quickly as Derek had relaxed, he tensed again, his jawline tight and ticking.

Stiles' own smile disappeared, the laughter hanging in the air between them fading. Stiles tried to decide whether to apologize or just change the subject. This was the Derek he was accustomed to - quiet, moody, taciturn.

"I didn't mean to bring up a sore subject," Stiles finally murmured. "You don't like talking about anything before you came here. Is it - is it because it makes you think of your sister?" He noticed Derek closed his eyes, and his heart hurt a little for the guy.

"I get that," Stiles continued. "I really do. I don't like to talk about life before -- before we lost my mom. It's easier not to think about it. Some people probably think it's because I prefer not to think about her at all, or that it's my way of moving on. But they really don't get it."

Derek's eyes opened and locked on Stiles' face. "But it's really because you think about her all the time. And you don't need the added reminder that she's gone, that there was a life and memories that had her present, because you already feel it every day," he finished for Stiles, slurring ever so slightly.

Stiles liked to think they'd grown closer over the year or so they'd known one another, that they were friends. Until tonight though, there had always been a wall between them and it seemed as if that wall was crumbling just then. It also struck Stiles how much they had in common. His own personal loss wasn't nearly as great as Derek's, in sheer number alone, but the pain was kin. It wasn't quantifiable, grief never was, but it was relatable. And it was something they shared.

For all the times Stiles had fantasized about something physical with Derek, even a single kiss, this was far more momentous to him because of the singular gaze passing between them. Derek reached out and brushed over Stiles' knuckles with his own fingertips. Stiles didn't think it was intended romantically, but it was a genuine emotional connection.

Also in that moment, Stiles realized just how doped up Derek really was. _Shit._ Stiles didn't want to take advantage of it, but he was sorely tempted. What a dream, to get Derek talking freely, to open up fully, and yet Derek would hate Stiles for it when his head was clear. Stiles would hate _himself_ for it.

But Stiles refused to believe that what had just passed between them was purely induced by the medication. He swallowed thickly before returning the simple touch, fingertips smoothing over Derek's hand before retreating. "The medicine is probably going to sedate you. And make you feel - not like yourself," Stiles whispered. "Why don't I take our bowls downstairs and rinse them out and then if you want me to keep talking to you, I will. But if you want to talk -- you can wait until tomorrow?"

Something seemed to flicker in Derek's eyes, like he understood what Stiles was doing, and he nodded. He also smiled softly; it made Stiles' heart beat fast.

Once Stiles was back in his room, having changed into pajamas in the bathroom, he settled on the edge of his bed. He began talking, avoiding heavy topics, mostly about school, and the pack, as well as his dad. He talked about his plans for college, and a few times, he referenced his mom, but only casually and only good memories. And Derek listened and actually replied on several occasions.

When the werewolf began yawning, Stiles stood and held out a hand for Derek's glasses before placing them on his nightstand. When he moved away to make a pallet on the floor, Derek shook his head. "Your bed is big enough. Sleep beside me." It wasn't really a request.

"You don't get to order me around; I'm not a beta," Stiles informed him with a soft smile. "What makes you think I'm going to listen now?" Derek was still too injured to do much more than recline after all.

Derek rubbed his temple. "Would you --- _please_ sleep beside me? Even if I wear the headphones, the music doesn't help with not being able to scent," he tried to explain. "And you smell familiar, but you're too far away on the floor. I can't smell you."

Stiles took a deep breath, and then another because he knew he wouldn't be able to turn Derek down, not when he needed him. Derek had even said please. It really wasn't much of a dilemma for Stiles when he crawled to stretch out on the bed beside him.

Derek didn't hesitate to pull Stiles against him, burying his nose in Stiles' shoulder. Stiles stilled, unsure what to do with his arms. It was a terribly one-sided cuddle in that instant, with Derek embracing him while Stiles held his hands in the air uncertain. He finally relaxed and settled them on Derek's good arm.

"I'm not good at this," Derek mumbled into Stiles' shirt.

"What? Cuddling? Because I have to tell you, you're taking to it like a duck to water," Stiles grinned.

Derek lifted his head to look at Stiles, their faces very close with the movement. "I'm not used to talking, and you like to talk. I'm not used to -- ," he paused and then gestured between them. "Relationships," he finally finished like it was a dirty word. "Especially romantic ones."

 _Relationships? Relationships?!_ Stiles jaw dropped and it probably wasn't at all attractive. "You mean - you -- you, Derek Hale, are interested in - me? Stiles Stilinski?" he asked in obvious surprise.

Derek rolled his eyes. "Why does that shock you?"

"Because you look like _that_?" Stiles gestured back at him. "Because I'm not even a werewolf. I'm just a human and a teenager and not exactly popular even with people my own age --"

Derek frowned at him. "I wasn't popular in school; I kept to myself. And I like how you look. And you smell -- fuck, you smell good," he confessed, almost sheepishly. It was kind of adorable.

Stiles brown eyes couldn't have gone wider if he'd tried. "How long have you -- liked me?" Stiles asked, stuttering and then blushed because he sounded so immature, even to his own ears.

"Long enough," Derek grunted at him. "You had no idea?"

Stiles laid there shaking his head back and forth. "Why haven't you ever done anything about it?!" he cried out, face turning red. 

"I just told you. I'm not good at this. And you're seventeen," Derek sighed, lowering his head back to Stiles' shoulder.

Stiles blew out a frustrated sound. "Are you telling me I'm being cockblocked by my age? That chronologically sucks!" He blushed harder after that because Derek hadn't really said anything about sex, but that's where his mind had clearly jumped.

Derek was making sounds against his shirt, and Stiles was instantly worried. "Hey, you okay, man? Are you hurting? Did you pull a stitch?"

Derek peered up at him again, and he was actually laughing. Hard. It probably did hurt, but it was still gorgeous to Stiles' ears.

Stiles had to tease him though, he couldn't resist. "You're laughing at me. I'm trying to help you out here, and you're laughing at me. I could totally be taking advantage of your compromised state right now, and you think I'm funny," he huffed.

Derek kept laughing, until it finally devolved into a classic smirk, one that Stiles had seen on Derek's face many times. "I know I'm a little high right now, but I have my faculties under control, thanks. I'll have to repeat everything when we wake up, just so you'll know I mean it," Derek informed him.

Stiles stared at him with wide eyes, until Derek sighed and continued. "When's your birthday, Stiles?"

"Four months. I'll be eighteen in four months," the teen whispered, sounding a little awed. "Are you going to get me a present?"

"Don't plan anything. You're going to celebrate your birthday with me," Derek drawled before tugging Stiles' face toward his own and planting a kiss on his lips. 

Stiles was too bewildered at first to respond, and Derek was pulling back before he could. "Oh no you don't," Stiles murmured, leaning down and meeting Derek's mouth again.

They both lingered this time, tongues tentatively touching, lips parting. As kisses go, it was tame, but Stiles' heart was beating a mile a minute when they broke apart. Derek was smiling.

"I need to sleep now," he informed him, but his gaze was soft and there was unmistakable affection in his tone.

"Right, okay," Stiles answered a little dumbly before blinking at him. "Whoa, dude, I am going to be so pissed if this was a narcotic-induced episode," he added quickly.

Derek just grinned, and settled back against Stiles, face pressing more into his neck than his shoulder this time. He was asleep almost immediately, but Stiles laid awake for hours. 

Was he a bad person because he liked Derek like this? He liked Derek needing him. He liked Derek trusting him and relying on him. He liked Derek being more his equal instead of a werewolf that could snap him in two without effort. Derek still looked like a super _model_ , but he wasn't super _natural_ just then. Stiles let himself wish, however briefly, that he had the chance to be more than the pack's token human. 

He felt guilty for that last thought. Derek didn't treat him like he was less than the others. In fact, he treated him with respect. Based on the events of tonight, he did view him as an equal. Stiles felt a certain joy well up in him.

And then he also felt guilty because Derek wasn't Derek without his werewolf. It was as if Derek had had a limb removed, or part of his brain. Stiles couldn't wish this on the man, not permanently, not when he cared about him, and especially not after finding out that their feelings were mutual.

When his phone buzzed around three in the morning, the sound didn't even wake Derek. It was startling for Stiles, a stark reminder of just how human Derek was right now, how soundly he was actually was sleeping. 

He read the text from Deaton. They'd tracked down a cure with Argent's help, but it would take three days for it to be prepared. Stiles smiled to himself, relieved that Derek wouldn't have to suffer much longer. Still, Stiles was going to savor the next three days with him. 

It was only then that Stiles was finally able to sleep, cuddled against Derek Hale and excited about their future.

**Author's Note:**

> As far as I know, the Gilbert brothers are fictional, but I might have been thinking of a pair of NFL brothers while writing this.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own.


End file.
